


Letting Go

by tenaya



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1991-03-01
Updated: 1991-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story explores the motivations at play during the cellar scene in "Rumours of Death."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letting Go

**Author's Note:**

> Co-written with Shann DePuy.

“Our sense of power is more vivid when we break a man’s spirit than when we win his heart.” – Eric Hoffer.

 

The basement under the new presidential palace was cold and musty, smelling of immense age. It had survived global wars and bloody revolutions, indifferent to the suffering of the race that had created it – just as it was indifferent to the current drama that was unfolding now inside of it. 

“Bartholomew stayed close and let you run…close and let you run…close and let you run….” Shrinker’s voice echoed mockingly inside Avon’s head, pointing its ghostly finger in accusation at the only person who could have betrayed him.

Avon’s eyes widened in horror. “He wasn’t Bartholomew, was he?” he whispered, anguished, the terrible realization striking him like a blow to the gut.

Into the deathly silence, Servalan’s voice, quiet and aching with compassion, pushed Avon closer to the unbearable truth. “No. He wasn’t.” She paused dramatically as she savored the attention and power she held over the paralyzed group. Eternity seemed to hang, unwilling to move until she continued. “Not even Chesku knew who Bartholomew was. But you do, don’t you Avon?”

Sensing she was exposed, Sula tried to draw her weapon. She had placed it in her hip pocket and now the barrel caught in the cloth, delaying her draw by precious seconds.

Cally saw her crewmate’s danger. “Avon!” she shouted.

Avon acted automatically to the threat he knew existed behind him and spun around. His mind, still stunned, numbly watched as if from a great distance as he saw Anna struggled to bring her gun to bear at him. Time had slowed and his own weapon zeroed in on Anna with an effortless, deadly accuracy.

On the opposite side of Anna, Tarrant was matching Avon’s draw move for move, only a millisecond behind him.

The sound of a gunshot echoed hollowly and Anna fell, twisting forward. Avon caught her as her knees hit the ground and he slowly lowered her down. After the merest of pauses, he drew her close, resting her slight body against his chest. Of its own accord, his hand moved to steady her shoulder. He resisted for a fraction of a second, then allowed it to complete its loving caress. He held her tightly, unable to still his desperate yearning for the woman he had loved and lost—and who had returned from the grave to betray him. “At least that was honest,” he said, his voice husky with emotion as his chin brushed against the silky hair.

Struggling against the pain of her mortal injury, Anna bitterly accused, “I knew when you found out, you’d kill me.”

Avon grimaced. “Unless you killed me first,” he corrected.

Anna gasped as she felt something burst inside her chest and she knew she was dying. “We were well-matched, Avon.” She smiled at the irony of her too-late realization of that fact, for she had always considered that Avon had not been her match.

The fantasy of Anna’s torture and death that Avon had relived a thousand times was now shattered and he struggled to fit the pieces together from his new perspective. “You weren’t even real; Bartholomew, Central Security’s best agent. One of your colleagues told me that.”

“Anna Grant,” she said with a quaver in her voice. “I was only ever Anna Grant with you.”

“Of all the things I have known myself to be, I have never recognized the fool,” he said, passing harsh judgment on himself.

“It wasn’t all lies,” she said, her voice pleading. Her strength was nearly gone now and she could no longer feel her pain, or even her body. She had fought so hard for this day and now this ghost from her past had arisen to snatch her victory away. She was almost too tired to fight any longer.

She rallied one last time and tried to twist around to look Avon in the eye, to exert control on him once more but she couldn’t complete the movement. Fiercely, she said, “I let you go!” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “My love.” Her life fled as those last words echoed through the room and she sagged limply away from Avon, her eyes open and staring sightlessly.

Avon, responding to her words, had been bending to kiss her when he felt her die. He paused then and hugged her close, kissing the temple of her head one final time. “Oh no, you never let me go. You never did,” he bitterly accused, her death causing another twist to the knife that was embedded in his heart.

Avon lay her gently on the floor, her body askew like a child’s doll thrown carelessly away. He stared at her, feeling time’s inexorable march moving away from this moment—the instant when Anna ceased to live. Avon couldn’t grasp it all, his emotions moving too sluggishly to keep up with the events of the past two minutes. The emotional inertia of the past two and a half years was too unwieldy for him to manage. He needed time to understand, to really understand, and so he took his teleport bracelet off. Still staring at her lifeless face, he tossed the bracelet beside her head and stood.

Alarmed at Avon’s action, Cally and Tarrant shared a worried look between them.

From her vantage point, chained to the wall, Servalan watched, compassion seemingly welling from her dark expressive eyes. In reality, she had sensed an opening to regain control, a foothold from which she could turn the advantage in her favor. “Can you convince yourself that that didn’t happen?” she asked, flinging Tarrant’s taunt of a few minutes earlier back in Avon’s face. Like a viper with unerring aim, she had chosen her target and kept to him, knowing that a confused and unbalanced enemy will make a mistake. Chaos was her friend and would see her safely out of this danger.

Avon’s head snapped up at her words, his pain an open wound on his face. His eyes flashed hatred and he snapped; his gun up, taking aim towards her head.

Servalan didn’t flinch. She had complete faith in her instincts: her ability to read and manipulate people was flawless.

Avon’s gun went off for the second time in just over a minute and the metal ring that held Servalan to the wall disintegrated in a burst of high impact energy.

She was free.

Dayna silently stood guard on a door that led out of the palace. She watched with the eyes and judgment of a natural predator as two soldiers crept inside. When they were safely out of sight from those outside, she fired, killing the two instantly.

“ATTENTION IN THE HOUSE,” came an amplified voice from outside. Dayna froze. “YOU ARE SURROUNDED. THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT.” 

Up on the ship, Vila was startled by the quick, abrupt message. He flipped open the communication channel. “Are you ready to come up? Is that what you said?” he asked worriedly.

In the wine cellar, Avon was kneeling again at Anna’s side, his hand resting on her stomach as he studied her face. She had always been meticulous in her appearance and now her disarray seemed out of place.

Tarrant heard the distant sirens as loyal Federation soldiers moved in. “It looks as if they did get through,” he observed, thinking back on the mortally-wounded soldier who had guided them here just before he had died.

Dayna burst down the stairs. “Avon,” she said urgently. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

Cally agreed. “It’s time to leave!”

Tarrant was already activating his bracelet. “Vila! Vila, can you hear me?” he called, his tone urgent.

Vila responded without thinking. “Teleporting now,” he announced as he brought his crewmates up.

Tarrant, Cally and Dayna shimmered into being. Cally stared angrily at the thief. “You idiot, Vila!” she spat.

Confused and offended, Vila defended himself. “What do you mean ‘idiot?’ That was a very fast pickup!” he said as he looked for the man who’d soon be flaying him with his sharp tongue if he had done something wrong. “Where’s Avon?” he asked puzzled.

“Exactly!” said Dayna.

“Put me back down,” ordered Tarrant.

“Outside the house like before?” Vila asked.

Annoyed by the delay, Tarrant interrupted sharply. “Put me back where you just took us from!”

Vila felt his stomach twist in a knot; he had messed up. “Ehhh, well I can’t,” he confessed. “The outboard coordinates are still set,” he explained.

Cally bolted to the teleport controls, furious. “But didn’t you check the input coordinates as we came up?! She demanded, as she threw herself into the seat beside him.

“Ehhh, I forgot.” Vila became scared. Cally rarely yelled at him. Avon must be in terrible danger, he realized.

Dayna rolled her eyes in disgust and frustration. “He forgot!” she repeated scornfully. “Well, put me down outside the house,” she ordered.

Cally was furiously recalculating the coordinates. “Don’t be stupid, Dayna. It’ll be crawling with Federation troops by now,” she said, her tone brisk and professional.

Tarrant stared at Vila with a look that promised mayhem.

Vila grimaced, feeling very sick. He had obviously made a terrible mistake. He couldn’t bring himself to ask about the details; he had a feeling the truth would be worse than anything he could imagine—except maybe what Avon might do to him if and when he got back to the ship.

Avon finished arranging Anna’s body in the traditional pose, her hands lightly resting on top of her middle. Had she lied about her love for him, he wondered. Was that another lie like all the rest?

Servalan quietly bent down, her graceful fingers closing unnoticed over Anna’s gun. Incredibly, it lay neatly at her feet, flung there by Anna as she was shot. She stood, listening to the sounds of the battle above her and took stock of her situation and of the totally oblivious Avon. Servalan considered him; he was emotionally devastated, but that brilliant mind still held the secrets of Orac, the teleport and who knew what else. Soon her troops would have the mansion secured but had her power base been seriously damaged? Would someone else take advantage of this confusion and attempt another coup? She had no time or energy to spare on Avon if he became her prisoner now. He would be spirited away, his valuable knowledge dragged from him for the possible benefit of one of her rivals. She couldn’t risk that.

“Avon,” Servalan called, her voice like a lover’s caress. She could afford to be gentle because she was now in control.

Avon glanced up, startled; he had forgotten she was there. Servalan held a small ugly weapon pointed at his head. “Do you really think I care?” he asked, his mind still more caught up with Anna. 

Avon had always exuded power and control, and now he was on his knees in front of her, totally alone and vulnerable on her whims. She remembered back to their time together on Sarran, when she had tried to seduce him. At first, Avon had seemed most compliant to her persuasion, but then he’d rejected her—and that was something she was not used to. While he had angered her, he’d also intrigued her at the same time. In her fantasies, Avon had become a symbol of unattainable power and as such was the supreme conquest.

And now, there he was. Would he still be unyielding to her? Or would she finally be able to possess him, all of him? She reveled in the anticipation of controlling him, for that would be the ultimate in power. 

And Servalan craved power above all else.

“Put the bracelet on,” she ordered, bestowing a warm smile on Avon as she tested him.

“Why?” he asked, his voice sounded a little more interested as the very real threat of Servalan with a gun shocked his mind into the here and now. The instinct for survival came to the forefront with a jolt, blocking all else from consideration and clearing his mind.

Avon finally realized that his crew was gone and he was alone and vulnerable. He mentally cursed himself as he comprehended what his moment of grief and confusion had cost. When he had lost control of himself, he had also lost control of the situation, no longer ruling his own destiny. He had always maintained that sentiment was a weakness, but he felt the fool for proving the axiom to himself.

He warily looked up at her, wondering if there was any way he could possibly regain control.

“Just do it,” she said softly, reasonably. The distant sounds of gunfire played in the background as Servalan savored the deliciousness of those dark, questioning eyes upon hers.

Avon stared at her as he obeyed, clipping the bracelet on his wrist. She held his undivided attention as she toyed with him. He had to survive and his mind waited openly, seeking any clue to help him.

Servalan slinked closer, eventually coming to a stop behind him.

Avon froze; was she going to shoot him in the back? The tension in the room was electric, but it wasn’t fueled by fear. He sensed anticipation of…something else. He waited.

Servalan smiled as she saw Aon stiffened, imagining what he must be guessing at. He was wrong, of course, but the thought of the power of sudden death over him was intoxicating and she enjoyed its thrill. Finally, she placed her gun against Avon’s cheek and caressed him with it, her touch slow and sensual.

Avon stilled. Was it going to be this easy? He responded to the blatantly sexual cue by leaning ever so slightly into her hand, rubbing his cheek against her and the cool weapon she held. He had long ago learned how to manipulate by using his sexuality; in truth, it was a lesson that any handsome man or beautiful woman learned instinctively. If Servalan desired him, that was all the leverage he needed to regain control. All he had to do now was just be willing and susceptible to her demands. 

Amused and excited by his quick response to her, she let her gun trail across the back of his neck, ruffling the soft hair as she went. Avon was really too valuable to destroy, she decided, not to mention too interesting. The possibilities were endless.

Avon felt a tingling along his spine as she rested her hand on his neck. What would she do next? Would she want further proof of his willingness to submit to her desires? He glanced up sideways at her, trying to judge the effect his actions had had on her.

“I’m going to send your friends a corpse,” she teased, enjoying her cruel lie. Full of satisfaction, she smiled. “Tell them to bring you up.” Yes, storing Avon on the Liberator was really the safest place to keep him, as she had the confidence that she could collect him at any time she wanted. And what Servalan wanted, she always got sooner than later.

His movements were stiff as he again obeyed her. “Liberator. Bring me up,” he said harshly, knowing despite her words that she intended to let him go. A favor from an enemy was never an easy thing to stomach. 

A clatter of footsteps came from the staircase. “Sula! Sula!” Cried Hob. Panicked from the slaughter of his friends upstairs, he raced into the room.

Servalan, with her characteristic conservation of movement, pointed her gun at this noisy intruder and killed him with quick efficiency, annoyed that he had interrupted her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the brief, brilliant white force field of the teleport effect form and disperse. Her gun still pointed at the dead man, she glanced back to where Avon had been and was not surprised to see him gone. Pleased but with a touch of regret, she stared quietly at the cold barren stone floor.

And she promised herself that she would have another chance at achieving complete power over Avon.

 

“Power can corrupt, but absolute power is absolutely delightful.” –Anonymous.

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in Magnificent 7, #9.


End file.
